poems, memoirs, and essays

solitude

Thank God for family. Because then when the chasm between new and old friends is so wide, you still have somebody to keep you sane, somebody to just love you for being you.

I wonder what would happen if I took off the Band-aids and showed my big, ugly scars, if the sopping emotions bared themselves as part of the me-package. I fear people would run. “Those things are supposed to be kept under wraps. Don’t you know everyone suffers? But we don’t have to talk about it.”

Is this growing old? Is this moving away? Is this life? Was I just super-blessed before? Is this leaving “the fellowship”?

You get to loving your solitude, or at least you tell yourself you do. Perhaps God has built a bridge — a narrow one — out to our island, and we wait for someone to wander across the gap. But the bridge is narrow and hard to find. Folks can see the island, and they judge: interesting enough? smart enough? normal, average enough? real enough? enough?

And so we wait, still wondering: is this growing old? Is this moving away? Is this life?

About c.l.beyer

Welcome to this screen space, friend. These words are created in Seattle now, where I live with my husband and three sons. Kansas prairies and farms will bleed out through what I write, along with the mystery of God, who forever insists on communing with me.
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